The Eyes are Windows to the Soul
by Lady Amaranth
Summary: The Malfoys. Deatheaters, purebloods, feared and hated. They have no regrets...Or do they?


Author's Note: Yeah so, obviously I don't own Harry Potter.

He walked quickly up the stairs, throwing open his bedroom door and shutting is hard behind him. He leaned against the closed door running a shaking hand through his white blond hair. He pulled out his wand and muttered a spell, silencing the room from any listening ears.

He slumped against the doorframe sliding down it until his cheek lay pressed the hard cold metal of the doorknob.

He looked around the room that had served as his sanctuary for the past sixteen years. The dark green walls trimmed with silver, the pictures of him and his family covered the wall, the silver curtains letting in the red and gold from the setting sun. And across the room hanging limply from a peg in the wall hung a news article. The title still could still be read clearly and the picture of a writhing, angry looking Harry Potter stood out on its cover. It was the article written about him by Rita Skeeter from Draco's fourth year, he remembered how Crabbe had done some marvelous imitations of Harry having a fit at Malfoy Manor. He tried to bring himself back to the normalcy of that year. He tried to smile but his mouth twitched painfully as if it had forgotten how to. He passed a hand over his eyes emitting a shaky laugh, oh course he remembered how to smile! How to laugh! He could use a good laugh right now! He pointed his wand toward his bed crying: "Accio paper!"

He watched as it zipped across the room toward his out stretched hand, he caught it deftly admiring his qudditch reflexes. He looked down at the paper smirking at the sight of Harry rubbing his scar painfully. Suddenly he frowned, an odd feeling surging up inside of him. He flung the paper away from his as if it were poisonous; he grabbed his wand and pointed it at the parchment. "Reducto!" He watched as the paper was torn to bits, littering the floor with its remains. He realized that he was standing and that he was shaking uncontrollably. He gasped and quickly crossed the room to his bed clutching his wand tightly. He sat down and stared down at the wand held in his hand. A look of revulsion and hatred crossed his face.

"Why?" He whispered, "Don't you realize what you've done? What you've done? _What you've done_!"

He was shouting now, screaming and still staring down at the wand in his hand a look of deep loathing etched on his face. "The men you've tortured, the lives you ended." He was pacing around the room like a caged animal.

"Don't you know what you've done?"

He stopped, and slowly looked up, he was facing a mirror. His face was pale, paler than it had ever been. His hair was longer too. And his eyes…his eyes. Pale and cold and tortured. Lost, desolate, lonely. His wand dropped to the floor.

"_What you've done_…" He whispered. He looked down and was surprised to see wetness on his hand. He was crying. He looked back up the mirror glaring at his reflection. "Stop it, _STOP IT_!!"

He flung his fist as hard as he could into the reflection. He could feel the cold glass cut into his flesh, the hot red blood spattering the green wall, pooling on the floor. He fell back clutching his mangled hand. He groped for his wand, and pointed it at his hand muttering the spell. He watched as his hand stitched itself together. He sighed and walked back toward his bed, sitting on the edge and examining his healed hand. He noticed a daily prophet folded neatly on his windowsill. He grabbed it, flinging it open and reading the cover. A large picture of Harry took up most of the cover under the heading The Chosen One: Dead or Alive? He glared down at the picture clutching it tightly. "You better be alive Potter, you hear me? You better be alive. Because-" He stopped. He flung the paper on the floor turning away from it. A sharp knock sounded from the door. He grabbed his wand, muttering the counter spell to the one he had put on the room earlier. "Come in."

The door opened revealing the pale, stately, figure of Narssica Malfoy.

"I-"

She stopped, gasping at the sight of the blood dripping down the wall and the shattered glass on the floor.

"What happened? What is it?" She walked toward him and put a hand on his shoulder the worry evident in her voice. He laughed harshly, knowing he sounded mad, deranged. "What happened? What is it?" He laughed again. He felt her arms enfold him.

"I'm sorry," She whispered, "So sorry."

He sighed. "I'm sorry too." They held each other. "Tell Draco, I'm sorry." Lucius heard her sigh.

"He knows, and I know."

"Sometimes, I wonder… the side we chose..." He stopped.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Let's go to dinner."

And another's Author's Note: I actually wrote another version of this with Draco instead of Lucius, anybody interested in reading it?


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